


Bi-polar/lingual/sexual Tryin' to Make It Work

by doobieace



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bisexual Male Character, Character Study, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is bisexual tbh, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, M/M, Manic Episode, Mayfield Psychiatric Facility, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Reference to suicide attempts, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, because the show should have explored the character more, set in season 6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-19 03:19:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15501174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doobieace/pseuds/doobieace
Summary: Why has Alvie been to Mayfield multiple times? What happens when Alvie decides to take his meds again? This fic is a mostly canon-compliant fix-it expanding on the events of his episodes, exploring Alvie’s struggles with bipolar disorder, his recovery immediately after “Broken,” and his relationship with House through "Baggage."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I used to be a big fan of House MD and saw season 6 when it aired, so imagine my surprise when the manic-depressive character I only sort of remember turned out to be Lin-Manuel Miranda. So I watched it again and I loved how he portrayed Alvie. I started writing this months ago and thought I'd finally post and add to it to finish it. 
> 
> On the show - the season 6 episodes “Broken (Parts 1 and 2)” and “Baggage" - Juan Alvarez is House’s helpful sidekick, providing a foil to House and comic relief with his manic personality. But where was the “depression” of Alvie’s manic depression? The show shied away from portraying bipolar disorder as a mental illness, and more as a fun character quirk. I think this was a missed opportunity to not delve into the serious side of Alvie’s character, so that's what I wrote this for. If you like it -the few of you whose House MD and LMM interests collided - kudos are much appreciated!

Even though he had a strong commitment to staying away from medications, Alvie was relieved to have House as a distraction. The man was intriguing: always thinking, assessing every aspect of a room he entered, with icy blue eyes that could analyze and tear apart anything in front of them. During the moments Alvie needed to take a breath or just stop speaking while others were talking (he's gotten a lot better at group sessions since the last time), Alvie could occupy himself just by looking at House's face and guessing what the clever doctor was thinking. Caustic words, superior attitude, unflappable exterior - this dude knew what he was about.

Alvie delighted in being around him, even more so because of how House didn't seem to mind his company. In the weeks they had known each other, House had only directly told Alvie to shut up four times, and that's a lot nicer than most people he has met. And so, occupying himself with House's schemes was a way to avoid the full reality of being back at Mayfield. Again. And what they wanted from him. His weekly one-on-one counselling sessions kept pushing at this matter.

"'How are you feeling today, Mr. Alvarez? Are you ready for us to turn you into a brain-numbed zombie, Mr. Alvarez?'" Alvie mumbled to himself in a faux-friendly professional voice, walking down the hallway after one of these meetings.

_"Let Dr. Beasley know any time you want to start them.”_ The words echoed in his mind, followed by the doctor's sigh and pointed look at his fidgeting hands and bouncing legs.

"They think I'll cave in? No way," Alvie continued. His hands reflected his exasperation, gesturing expressively as the energy he had tried to suppress during the session released itself.

 "I've got too much to write / and I can't lose sight / otherwise I’ll lose / to the establishment's might-" Alvie searched for another line, pulling at his hair a bit as he paused mid-step in the hallway. Caught up in his thoughts, someone bumped into him.

"Watch where you're going, Waldo," barked a thin teenager passing by, sour face wrinkled in disdain.

"Waldo? What the hell?" Alvie called after him, his tongue launching into attack mode. "I'm not even wearing a striped shirt or nothing, don't own one even, and you think of Where's Waldo? Who do you even think you are? More like, 'Where's the Skinny Angry Kid in Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital'? As if I'd play a game like that. The company that sold that would go bankrupt.  _Monopoly_  would get an even bigger monopoly on the board game economy..."

At that moment, Alvie spotted House limping towards the main recreation room. His expression brightened immediately. The grump surveyed the room with a deep frown set into his face, and Alvie quickly went over to him, a bounce in his step.

"Hey-o, it's doctor Heezy, out of solitary," Alvie exclaimed.

House glanced down at his short roommate and rolled his eyes.

After the incident with Freedom Master, Dr. Medina had insisted that House be punished with two nights in an isolation cell. House had only borrowed a car, and the accident wasn't his fault, so Alvie was convinced that Medina had a special grudge against House. Now Alvie would shoot a glare at Medina every chance he got, but the well-groomed man would only raise his eyebrows as if amused, infuriating Alvie even more. He hoped that House's next plan involved wiping that condescending look off of Medina's face.

Alvie had been hoping that the time in solitary would help House cook up some new plans. He had seemed ready to throw in the towel a few days ago, when he had returned to their room as gloom personified after his time with Dr. Nolan. And then House had ignored him.

_No big deal,_  Alive had thought.  _Dude needs time to get a new angle, then he'll let me in on it._  He spent two nights in their shared room alone, legs restless, fingers relentlessly wearing at his bed sheets, mind whirling with starts and stops that were hard to follow. The darkness was a bit too similar to his lone city apartment, but without the flow of traffic noise, the quiet was even more oppressive. Alvie would feel his skin crawl and try to focus on his breathing, but it was always too fast, he was never able to slow it down enough.

Still, it's not like Alvie usually gets much sleep, anyway. So the absence of his roommate’s steady breathing didn’t make much of a difference. Really.

House moved into the line for afternoon medications. Alive followed curiously.

"What are you doing here?"

"Getting my communion wafer," House remarked dryly.

"You're cheeking it, right?" Alvie asked, a sudden surge of panic making him forget to lower his voice. He grabbed House's face to check, but the man pushed him away. House walked on in annoyance, insisting that this wasn't another scheme. He had given in.

"They didn't break me. I am broken," House said. His hand clenched on his cane as he turned away, and Alvie felt the next words like a gut-punch. "Stop worshipping me and go worry about your own loser life."

The next days were hard. He couldn't bring himself to speak to House, but he had extra difficulty finding an output for his incessant energy. He would play pong with Hal and others, and then when there was no one left to play, he would drum on his thighs and quietly try some rhymes by himself. It took effort not to dwell on certain thoughts.

If House, the most stubborn, clever man to go up against a psychiatric facility, had given up the fight, how could Alvie possibly keep resisting?

_Nothing’s wrong with me._

_“I am broken.”_

_Nothing’s wrong with me._

He would exercise harder during yard time to exhaust himself before the long night ahead, and yet, Alvie still ended up spending those dark hours awake. He would stare at the ceiling or wall and try to keep still around the hurricane inside of him that wanted to be released. House would snore and sleep as late as the enforced schedule allowed. After his minimal sleep, Alvie would get up, dress, and leave the room as early as allowed, pacing the hallway before breakfast. Then it would start again: group sessions, free hour, yard time, smoke breaks, allotted activities like crafts in between meals, another group session. And of course, the medication hand-outs that Alvie would ignore, sitting more still than usual and avoiding eye contact as everyone else went ahead.

House exchanged a few words with him one evening, after the man returned from some suit-and-tie dinner event. Alvie was desperate for some conversation, even with the hurt still there.

"So what happened?"

"Oh, you're talking to me now."

"No... Was it fun?"

"Yeah," said House softly.

Alvie's heart warmed at the smile in House's voice, but then turned a bit at the idea of who that affection was aimed at. Had House been with Lydia, Annie’s frequent visitor? Or another elegant, enticing woman that would wait for House until he was discharged from Mayfield? Who was waiting for Dr. House in his other life? Perhaps not many, then again – House’s “only friend” on that phone call had failed when the man needed him most. Just like Alvie, House didn’t have many friends on the outside. The idea, like when House had told him weeks ago that he didn’t take medication, was a sort of comfort.

The night before the talent show, the extra excitement was turning Alvie into a wreck. The dark room seemed to amplify his pent-up energy, and his willpower could only get him so far. With House snoring only a couple of feet away, Alvie’s restless fingers searched for something more satisfying, and he started to scratch at his stomach repeatedly, thoughtlessly. It was good that the soft flesh didn’t give very easily. He had enough mind to avoid making new marks on his arms.

He wanted to hum but couldn't wake House. Why couldn't he have some music with headphones? Every patient should get some headphones as soon as they’re committed; why weren’t there some rules like that? Alvie would write a letter to Mayfield’s top tier that the patients deserved headphones. Of course, Alvie would hum through something like that anyway; he was never the kind to just sit and quietly watch or listen to anything. He could never sit still during the subway rides to New York from New Jersey, and he alternatively loved or hated the rides depending on the day and its purpose. Once on his way to a job in NYC, the sunrise was so nice. Love or hate the subway rides, why was it always extremes, but that’s the way it was with him, nothing wrong with that or with him.

Alvie bit the inside of his cheek and shook his head, the continuous movement an attempt to shake off some of the torrents of broken thinking. Wondering about back home, life at Mayfield, what he might rap about tomorrow. The frustration of this unceasing mental barrage made him start to tear up.

Too frayed to find focus, he gave up, letting himself get caught in the waves, riding along unpleasantly but unable to drown. Eventually he fell into a fractured sleep.

The next day, Alvie immersed himself in activities and avoided House as usual until the early evening event. Riding on the high of sleep deprivation and mania, Alvie did get through the talent show - with House, no less, at his side. It turned out better than he had imagined, and he had imagined a lot of ways the show could have gone. House grinning at him, saying that they had each other - it was the happiest he had been since returning to Mayfield.

Alvie felt euphoric as he got back to his room after dinner. He hummed and danced a little as he put on his pajamas, feeling on top of the world. He knew he could accomplish anything he wanted, and he could be himself doing it, and people would like it. He wanted to run and dance in the rainy streets like _Singin’ in the Rain_. Buttoning his shirt, he started to mentally compose a rap-style remix of the musical’s hit song.

A sinking feeling suddenly spread throughout Alvie’s chest. His ecstatic grin faded slightly. He paused in buttoning his pajama top and blinked, confusion filling his features. What was it? All his excitement was still there - his moving hands, his restless body, his racing pulse. But an unmistakable weight seemed to pull heavily at Alvie’s core, as if he was tired. He wasn’t tired.

Alvie’s increasing worry was just beginning to trickle into horror as House limped into the room. House glanced at Alvie, merely raising an eyebrow at Alvie’s still stance at the side of his bed, hands paused on his buttons and eyes under furrowed brow wide and fixed on some internal problem. At the sight of House, Alvie straightened and mentally shook himself, regaining his motion into bed.

It was nothing. He was fine.

Still, when he laid in bed it was with a slight nervousness. The ward lights went out moments later, and Alvie was left staring at the black ceiling. His feet trembled and his hands began rapidly tapping with their usual energy, but Alvie’s quick thoughts started to circle back to the same thing. That weight was settling inside his chest, and Alvie started to panic, which seemed to make it only worse. His mind and heart ached with exhaustion and the building, pressing gloom, but his body surged with the energy that demanded to be released. He simultaneously wanted to be dragged to the bottom of the ocean and crushed by its pressure, or he felt like running as fast as he could till his lungs burst or he fell off the edge of the world. These warring demands to either suffocate or explode rocked violently within him.

No, there was no mistaking it.

He began to shake, and cry, and the crying turned into lurching, quiet sobs as he laid on his side under the blankets. He clutched his arms tightly around his body, trying to hold himself together.

His nails dug into his sides. One fist went into his mouth to hush any sounds. The hurricane inside of Alvie was too much, ripping away at him, but tempting solutions like running up dozens of flights of stairs and jumping off a roof for a solid, sudden end were hardly viable options. He began to rock his body a bit. Desperation started to mix with his overwhelmed panic. How would he survive this?

 

* * *

 

House woke up gradually to a dark room, disgruntled by being granted consciousness in the middle of the night. Hopefully this wasn’t a side effect of whatever Nolan gave him. He shifted off his side to his back, closing his eyes to try to get back to sleep again.

And then he heard it – the sounds that must have woken him up in the first place. Muffled gasps of breath, an occasional soft, sad keening noise that would quickly die out. Some shifting of blankets.

Alvie. House lifted himself up a bit to a sitting position, squinting toward the other bed. “Alvie?”

A louder sound, but no answer. House shifted his legs to the floor, wincing a bit before standing and taking a few cautious steps towards Alvie’s bed.

The street lights from outside the window gave him just enough light to see Alvie’s covered form, visibly shaking and the source of the distraught noises.

Without so much as an eye roll, House reached out and touched the form slowly, gently. He felt Alvie’s arm, and maintained a gentle yet firm grip. His voice still came out as a bit of a grunt, not wanting to allow himself to be too worried. Best not to run away with emotional assumptions.

“Alvie, are you okay?”

The figure shifted a bit, still shaking, and House pulled away the blanket to reveal the man. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his face soaked, a fist in his mouth that looked wet with blood and saliva. His other arm wrapped around his middle, and he was curled forward as if he was going to collapse in on himself like an over-burdened star.

House sighed, not unkindly, and – as gently as he could – pulled Alvie’s arms out from their tight positions, lifting the shaking smaller man into a sitting position at the same time. Alvie opened his eyes, looking as panicked and desperate as a drowning man.

He held Alvie’s arms in front of him for a moment and tried to meet his eyes levelly. “What is it?”

Alvie’s wide eyes were shining with tears, and at the question he swallowed down a sob. He shook his head quickly and pulled his arms back, taking a few quick breaths and wiping at his eyes before his hands started to fidget restlessly in front of him.

After a few more deep, loud breaths, he tried to explain.

“I’m uh…riding it out,” Alvie said, and it came out as a kind of strangled half sob, half laugh.

“What?” House prompted, his sharp blue eyes following Alvie’s every word.

Alvie clasped his hands loosely together, but one still shook restlessly. He watched them for a moment, felt a surge of anxiety, and let the words burst out without thinking too much about it. He knew that talking helped, so he would do just that.

“It’s- it’s like a flip, you know – this, that I have to ride out,” Alvie explained, squeezing his eyes shut and gulping around a new flow of tears. His hand gestured in stop-and-start movements to help him find the words. “Like, um, like this light switch is trying to flip, but it’s stuck in this middle zone.”

He rubbed at his chest, as if it hurt him.

“You’re having a depressive episode,” House half-stated, half-asked.

Alvie gave a half nod, words rushing out frantically. “See I never know how long the highs or lows will be, but the highs can go for weeks or months – it’s great – I can go and go and go, but it can build up, and I get to this point of piling it up, and suddenly the no-sleeping for weeks kicks in, but not quite, and I’m fucked over ‘cuz my body wants to speed up or slow down and it doesn’t know which, and I’m-” Alvie broke off, tried to pick up his thought, but just shook his head and inhaled a strained breath, pulling his arms around his middle.

House instinctively knew what he would normally say in a situation like this, but he bit it back. If he were talking to a patient back in Princeton-Plainsboro, he would call them an idiot and tell them to take their meds. But he wasn’t Alvie’s doctor. He had lived with the manic Puerto Rican for several weeks, and damn if he had ever had a closer friend, besides Wilson. Damn if seeing his upbeat roommate reduced to a shaking wreck didn’t create a bit of an ache in his chest.

_You are getting so fucking soft,_ House chastised himself.

Alvie sniffed, and under his baggy sleeves he was starting to scratch at his arms. House reached out and put a stop to this, examining the reddened arms. He narrowed his eyes, and looking closely he could see some scars there. The back of his right arm had the most obvious scars – ones that had possibly needed stitches. Barely healed.

House couldn’t help but glare at Alvie. “Is this what you had bandaged the first day you came in? Did you do it?”

Alvie fidgeted helplessly under House’s gaze and grip, and shook his head urgently. “No, no, House, it’s not on purpose – I don’t set out to do it, I don’t want to – it just happens when all the energy builds up and I have nowhere to go with it, y’know, like there’s all this tension and keeping my hands busy sort of, y’know – it helps.”

Impulsive, anxiety-induced harm is still self-harm, House thought grimly.

“You should tell someone, Alvie. Maybe take some meds,” he said, reaching for a more suggesting instead of demanding tone.

“No, no, House, please, not now,” Alvie pleaded, his desperate, wide brown eyes boring into House’s own. “Not tonight. I can’t do it now. They might make it worse. Please don’t make me.”

House sighed. He remembered the long days on a cot not too long ago, being forcibly rid of his addiction; but Alvie couldn’t be strapped to some bed and have his intense moods magically fixed.

“I’m not going to make you get medication,” House reassured him. “At least not tonight.”

Alive looked slightly relieved, though his face was covered in tears and his hands still nervously fidgeting. He looked away and nodded, off the hook but still seeming defeated, shoulders slumped. House stood up and turned as if to head back to his bed. Alvie laid down, clutching at his chest and still breathing in quick, heavy gasps. One of his hands rubbed at a blanket as if determined to wear the cloth away to nothing. He stared anxiously yet resolutely at the ceiling in this manner.

House inwardly groaned. Is this how Alvie planned to spend the rest of the night? What if he started getting at his arms again? No way was House going to be able to sleep while his roommate was having an anxious/depressive meltdown.

He considered holding Alvie to a promise, but it’s like the man told him: he couldn’t hold back hurtful actions when the impulse drove him to it. He had to pick another option.

This would be better for them both, House grudgingly thought.

“Move over,” House grumbled.

Alvie looked up at House, eyes wet and uncomprehending.

“What?”

“Come on,” House said impatiently and gestured, and Alvie confusedly shifted closer to the wall.

“You don’t want to go for help tonight, and I can’t let you lay here all night tempted to hurt yourself,” House said as he lifted his bad leg and sat on Alvie’s bed.

He laid down and looked at Alvie. “Right?”

Alvie swallowed and nodded his understanding. The twin bed was very narrow for two people, and he cringed at how his restlessness would bother House.

“I’m going to keep you awake with all my moving,” Alvie said, the only argument of refusal he could muster.

“You would keep me awake either way,” House replied. “At least this way I can keep track of you better.”

Alvie silently accepted this. Truth was, the distraction of House’s body helped take his attention from the despair and anxiety demanding to be listened to.

So he agreed. His voice shook a little as he let out a quiet, “Okay.”

They lapsed into silence, and Alvie tried to focus on their breathing instead of his roiling emotional instability.  It was only ten minutes or so before Alvie started absently rubbing at his arms with his tireless hands.

House, hardly opening his eyes, said, “Nope.”

The older man sighed, and in a few moments he had lifted Alvie over him so they could switch sides on the bed, and pressed against Alvie’s back, House draped his arm across Alvie’s chest to rest between his arms.

“There. Now, for my sake, try to sleep,” House said to the back of Alvie’s head.

“And you tell no one of this.”

Alvie made a small noise of understanding, and even though House could feel his coiled energy and quick-paced breathing, he could tell that Alvie relaxed just a little.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning light was peering in to the room when House started to wake up. His first inklings of awareness pleasantly dwelled on how warm and comfortable he was. Face pressed into something soft with a strawberry aroma. He smiled. Then his higher brain functions kicked in, probably triggered by the uncharacteristic smile, and House suddenly remembered where he was.

He opened his eyes, uncomfortably aware of the man lying in his arms. His hold had been purposely confining to keep Alvie from moving too much, and now he was flush up against him, cheek resting on top of his head and brushing against his soft, dark hair. House grimaced to himself and tried to pull back a bit.

Alvie made a small noise at the movement, and House stilled again.

The arm that reached around Alvie was positioned just as it had been when he fell asleep, and it seemed that Alvie had made no more attempts to do any self-inflicted damage. The man was still sound asleep, breathing softly onto House's hand. That was new - House wasn't sure if he had ever seen Alvie asleep, let alone as still as this.

This was ridiculous. He should just get out of the bed - who cares if he wakes up Alvie? Despite this, House couldn't make himself move more than an inch. It didn't even matter, because Alvie moved with him, anyway. A little noise would come out of Alvie's throat, and he would shift backwards to once more snuggle up against House's warm chest.

Exasperated, House continued to internally fume on the matter, but he had resigned himself. It wasn’t like he got up early in the morning, anyway. Could get more sleep.

Still, House didn't let himself close his eyes. His listened to the soft, steady breathing and felt the warmth of Alvie sleeping in his arms.

He had noticed before, but House was starting to fully recognize how thin Alvie really was. Built a bit stockier and shorter than House, put together like an energetic rabbit. At least in his manic state. Had Alvie really been in a manic episode all these weeks he had known him? He wondered how arbitrary these mood shifts were.

House laid there for a bit, but he couldn't just empty his mind. Yeah, time to get moving. He wrenched himself away from Alvie, ignoring Alvie’s possible response, and hobbled out of bed to the bathroom. Maybe by the time he got out, Alvie would be awake and out of the room, already running off to breakfast.

That wasn't the case. When Alvie didn't show up to breakfast, Richter bit his nails and looked around the room more nervously than usual, and Diane asked House where Alvie was.

"Sleeping in," House replied.

"And why are you here so early?" she asked. He glared at her, and she ducked her head and quickly turned away. As breakfast ended, a nurse went to go inquire after him.

Alvie shuffled in just as group started, baggy clothes thrown on carelessly, and sat in his chair next to House. For all the distance in his eyes, it wouldn't have made a difference if he had taken a seat in the middle of a deserted island. Alvie's complete lack of energy shocked the others and cast a gloom over the short meeting.

"How did everyone feel about the talent show?" Dr. Beasley tried, but the others were too uneasy to offer many comments.

"Alvie?" Dr. Beasley prompted. He was hunched forward in his chair with his still hands clasped in front of him, dully looking at the floor.

When nobody said anything, Alvie seemed aware of the fixed attention and sighed.

"Went fine," he said, briefly glancing up at Dr. Beasley before regaining his passive gaze at the ground.

The next few days carried on the same way. Alvie seemed absolutely drained of energy and didn't attempt to talk much in group or otherwise. He would say maybe one or two words if necessary, but otherwise kept to himself, gazing out a window or just sitting with his head on his arms. He barely acknowledged House, collapsing into bed and falling asleep early, and getting up late. Despite all the extra sleep, during the day he had bags under his eyes and would rub his face wearily.

He was so different in his depressed state, House thought, considering the comparison. Not a trouble in the world when manic - he would let everything roll off his back, even occasional sniping comments from House. Now here he was, so fully distraught that he couldn’t even focus on anything else. House was getting a better sense of why Alvie was here, and especially how he had managed to make this a return visit to Mayfield.

But House couldn't focus on his roommate. He was too preoccupied with Lydia and Nolan. However, he would still now and then spot Alvie and feel the urge to do something. But do what? This was Alvie's struggle alone.

And then Lydia crushed his hopes - he had been stupid, it was never going to be possible anyway - and Nolan was suddenly letting him go with the recommendation to reinstate his license. House felt the bittersweet-ness of the victory. It was what he had wanted all along, but between Lydia and Alvie, he felt like he had lost more than he had gained.

On the day of his leaving, House woke up to find Alvie already out of the room. When he got to breakfast, the man was sitting by himself in that unaccustomed stillness of the past week, but seemed more engaged with his surroundings. He even shook himself out of a reverie to nod slightly at House as the man limped in.

Alvie warmed up as the day went on, talking to more people and starting to smile a bit, if not the usual beaming smile everyone was used to. It was a relief to the others to see him start to rise a bit out of his sudden depression, and that added to the happy atmosphere of another send-off. The celebration went well, even if they had to pull out a different dessert for everyone.

Afterwards, House stood in the room packing up his belongings. His bag laid on his bed. There was a strange calm running through him. He had washed his face of the remaining cake, but he could still taste the sweet frosting. House started to smile slightly, and then Alvie walked into the room.

"Hey, roomie," Alvie said, trying to maintain some mirth in his voice. "I just wanted to wish you good luck out there, and thank you for putting up with me. I thought you could have this."

He proffered to House a folded T-shirt: Alvie’s white one with the smiley face.

"Thanks," House said softly. Alvie looked ready to turn away, so House was quick to grab the piece of paper he had already written on.

"Here," he said, handing it to Alvie. He shrugged. "If you ever need to reach me."

"Thanks, man," Alvie said, smiling widely and meeting House’s eyes. Alvie looked down sheepishly, almost as if blushing, and then he looked up at House one last time before retreating with a nod.

 

* * *

 

Alvie had needed to put on a happy face for House’s last day at Mayfield. He had swiped some of the faculty coffee from a third floor machine, and that had given him the energy to pull through the day and say goodbye to his friend and roommate.

As the false boost faded and Alvie watched the bus carry his roommate away, Alvie thought about a lot of things – getting better, getting away, home, relationships. He thought about the caffeine and the false energy it had given him, and about his mania and the life it always gave him. There wasn’t much of a difference between them in the way that both never lasted.

There was always the crash after the high. What better evidence was there for this other than the fact that this was his third stay at Mayfield? When would the cycle be broken?

So, after over two months at Mayfield, Alvie finally gave in. He would take meds, and he would take them until he got the right ones and he could get better. Before he could change his mind, Alvie went to the service area and asked Dr. Beasley for them.

Unfortunately, one pill never magically solved anything. The variety, dosage, and combinations all need to be properly prescribed. Given the nature of Alvie’s return to Mayfield, his assigned doctor had thought starting him on a mood stabilizer would be best. Dr. Beasley consulted the chart and went to get Alvie his dose of lithium.

The next day, Alvie plummeted deeper into his depression. He had no energy, and the basic things he needed to do were carried out sluggishly. He would lie in bed and mildly wonder if he could just die there, before an orderly would come get him to go to breakfast or wherever.

Thoughts hardly stuck in his head for a minute. Nothing really mattered enough to do or say, but he couldn’t bring himself to think about anything either.

Eventually Dr. Beasley noticed Alvie’s detached state. She could tell in group that he was generally unfocused and couldn’t concentrate on any conversation or task. By the end of the week, she was giving Alvie a lower dosage, but it didn’t seem to help. A bit annoyed, Beasley tried to contact Alvie’s primary doctor, Dr. Amy Holden. No response.

“Out for the weekend, huh?” Beasley muttered to herself as she got office voicemail for the third time.

As a hard-working medical professional with several years of schooling and practice under her belt, Beasley was irritated by Holden. She had never spoken to the woman directly, but those wealthy types that breezed all the way through to the top and took more vacation time than they had earned on the job were despicable. “Doctor” was more of a title than a description for Holden, who harbored a strict (prejudiced) definition of what counted as “normal.” Holden had an aversion to staying very long in the mental hospital where she was employed.

Interrupting these bitter thoughts, Beasley’s cell phone buzzed. She glared at it, thinking it might be Holden sending out a half-assed text, but it was just her girlfriend.

_Want to catch a quick dinner before my shift tonight? Work sucks, miss you_

Beasley grimaced. She had already bailed out on a few dinner dates, and since Nora worked third shift, too often they were just passing each other like ships in the night. They needed a vacation. A quick wedding in Canada, and a relaxing vacation on a sunny beach in the Caribbean…A woman could dream.

She sent off a quick reply. She had just a few more things to do before the end of her shift.

Nolan had a separate office full of patient records. Beasley had to look for Alvie’s file herself, trying to find some history of medications. What had they sent him off with last time? Dr. Beasley had just started at Mayfield the last time Alvie was admitted seven months ago, and he was out in less than two months.

Alvarez, there was the file. Last admittance five weeks long, necessitated from “a self-destructive episode of mania.” Released with prescription for aripiprazole. Dr. Beasley skimmed further back. First admittance…four years ago. Reason? …Jesus.

By the next morning, Beasley had made the necessary arrangements to switch Alvie to an antidepressant and his past dosage of Abilify.

Alvie didn’t complain about the new meds – he didn’t even seem to notice the change. After over a week, however, Dr. Beasley saw a difference. He seemed more aware of his surroundings, and more responsive when people would talk to him. When she would say “Good morning, Alvie,” he would nod in acknowledgement and sometimes say a word or two.

What a relief to think of the bullet that had been dodged.

From her seat behind the service counter, Beasley watched Alvie play a game of cards with some of the others. He had enough energy for that, at least, and the involvement was certainly an improvement. She caught him staring off into the distance sometimes, and Beasley wondered how long it would take before he’d be smiling again.

Attempted suicide at 24: he was brought to Mayfield four years ago after an overdose on lithium. He had claimed that the overdose was a mistake, but he was still held for a few months to recuperate and be put on a new medication. The manic episode that had led to his second admission to Mayfield was caused by him intentionally going off his meds.

Although Beasley thought she could just lower Alvie’s dose of lithium, she didn’t want to take the risk. He had hated the medication so much primarily because it made him feel “too numb,” as a past doctor had noted in a report. The extreme ups and downs were gone, at least, but the absence of feeling would only exacerbate any lingering depression. Beasley had seen how lit up Alvie was the first months he was here, thick as thieves with House. She didn’t just want to fix the immediate symptoms – she wanted to see him regain some of that life again.

If Dr. Holden cared enough to complain about the interference with her patient, she would have Dr. Joanna Beasley to answer to.


	3. Chapter 3

The worst part of his depressive episodes was that he never knew when they would end. He never believed they would end. But this time, some kind of spark seemed to live on in the back of Alvie’s mind. Even if the rest of his mind and body wanted to just _stop_ because he was so tired with life, and he knew there was no point, no meaning to anything – somehow a bit of hope kept alive in his brain. Something that wasn’t there during his other episodes, like the one that had landed him at Mayfield the first time.

At least the emptiness was gone. Ever since his medication changed, he felt like he could focus on things more, and bring himself to care about the world around him. The gray and white walls demanded less of Alvie’s attention, and things vibrated with an aura of presence, with more color and life. Maybe he would start to feel inspired enough by the world again to rap and enjoy the company of others.

However, after several days of this improvement, Alvie woke up early one morning full of dread. His hands shook, and he was too nauseous to eat breakfast.

The last week he had noticed Dr. Beasley’s eyes on him, which wasn’t so unusual since he was finally taking his meds. Still, her probing, pitying eyes were disconcerting. He tried to avoid her, which worked for most of the day except for group time.

“How is everyone feeling today?” Dr. Beasley asked. Nobody spoke up voluntarily, so Beasley prompted people, especially the two recent arrivals at Mayfield. Alvie tried to keep his hands from fidgeting. He felt sweaty and heavy and wanted to leave.

Surprisingly, Beasley left Alvie alone during the group meeting. Immediately after, however, she swept up to him before he could get away.

“And Alvie, you didn’t speak up much. How are you feeling? Are you adjusting to your medication okay?”

Alvie didn’t want to admit to having an off-day. Beasley was regarding him with such soft eyes, and it would just be an inconvenience for him to say he wasn’t feeling so hot. He rattled off some response about how he was adjusting and feeling totally fine. He even managed a laugh as he slid away from her and waved, and then went to relax in his room out of the recreation area. Social interaction utterly drained Alvie these days.

His anxiety picked up throughout the day, and it was dreadful. He didn’t sleep the entire night, and so he was exhausted the next day. The next week started to go in a loop like that: fatigue when he got up in the morning, and dread and anxiety during the evening and night.

One Wednesday, Alvie spent the entire day in an emotionless stupor, only to be slammed with overwhelming worry and energy as he got into bed. _Oh God_ , he would think, and he would pace and pace that room while thinking, worrying about the future and what he was doing and what the lonely room possibly had to offer. Most of the time, his anxiety had no face to attach a name to, and he would just clench his teeth and stare up towards the ceiling in the dark.

Early that Thursday morning, Alvie decided to stop taking his meds. They were royally screwing up something – what he was given was the worst part of everything. He couldn’t decide which was worse: the blank, emotionless feeling during the day, or the suppressed worry and energy that flooded back into him at night.

He had learned very well how to cheek medication from House, and so that’s what he did that day. Alvie went back to his room, and as he spat the pills out into his hand, something close to relief filled him. He was too tired to think too hard about it, but he knew this was exactly what he needed to do. But now what to do with the pills?

Alvie looked around. Toss them? That would be easiest. But what if he wanted to trade something with Hal? Better keep them. He put them in the back of his dresser drawer, underneath a few books and T-shirts.

Alvie felt a bit restless when going to bed that night, but the feeling wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been the last couple days. When he woke up the next morning, the sun shining through the window was beautiful, and he could appreciate it fully. There was a spring to his step as he went off to breakfast. Yes - maybe he didn’t need medication quite as bad as he had thought he did.

 

* * *

 

A couple weeks went by with Alvie on the adjusted medications, and Dr. Beasley was glad to see him improving. He had more life in him each day, and he started to return to his sociable, talkative nature. It was good to see him a little happier, Beasley thought. But she couldn’t help but be concerned too. He wasn’t exactly on a mood stabilizer, and the anti-depressant would be helping Alvie improve emotionally, but the energy Alvie was starting to exhibit seemed a bit excessive for someone also taking an antipsychotic. Shouldn’t he be happy, but calmer?

At group time Beasley surreptitiously observed him a little closer and noticed that Alvie seemed a bit twitchy. He would clench his fists and cross his legs frequently - possible evidence that he was trying to keep them still. As if Alvie were trying to hide his abundant, manic energy.

Beasley grimaced to herself as one of the new patients, Emerald, “Emmy for short,” complained about her mattress. If anyone was going to avoid taking medication, it would be House’s partner in crime. Nolan had found out what House was up to and put an end to it. But House was an ass that needed to be taken down a peg. How could she possibly approach Alvie without offending the guy, and disrupting any of the established trust between them?

Well, honesty was the best, and simplest, policy. She approached him after group.

“Hey Alvie? Can you meet with me in my office?” she said.

She thought a look of panic crossed his face.

“Oh, why?”

She smiled comfortingly. “It won’t take long. I just want to talk for a sec.”

“Okay…”

He followed Beasley to her private office. It was a bit cramped, but that was less because of its actual size and more due to how many things crowded it. There was a couch and a velvet recliner chair, a large desk full of books and papers, shelves stuffed full, and a tall window that let in a thin bit of ambient light.

“Take a seat…” Beasley gestured to the couch, and she sat in the chair. Alvie sat down, sinking into the couch a bit. He leaned forward and hunched his shoulders to compensate, looking towards Beasley nervously.

Better just dive into it, she thought. “Alvie, please be honest with me. Are you taking all your medication?”

Alvie opened his mouth but said nothing. His gaze slid away from hers.

“Look,” Beasley sighed. “You need to keep the medical staff informed when you don’t think the meds are working for you. When was the last time you met with Dr. Holden?”

“A couple weeks ago,” Alvie said.

“Weeks? Why?”

Alvie shrugged. “She keeps rescheduling, I guess. When I go to her office for our weekly time, her secretary says she’s busy, ‘not in at the moment.’”

Beasley refrained from cursing her colleague in front of the woman’s patient. “Okay, well, that doesn’t change the fact that you can always tell me if you’re having problems with your medication. Okay?”

Alvie glanced up at her, fiddling with the cuffs of his baggy button-up shirt. “I guess so.”

“So is there anything you want me to know?”

“…No.”

Beasley sighed. “Okay, well, make sure you take all your meds every day. It will take you longer to get better if you don’t.” She purposely used his words from over a month ago to impress upon him that this was his decision.  

Alvie nodded, and she let him go.

 

* * *

 

Despite Beasley’s trusting demeanor, a long history of well-informed distrust for authority figures kept Alvie from speaking up during his meeting with her. His caution came at a price, however, and now he was paying for it: crying, bent over his bathroom toilet, choking out what he could of his stomach’s contents.

Several days had gone by after Alvie’s impromptu meeting with Dr. Beasley, and he had kept cheeking his meds. He couldn’t just start taking them again, not with how awful they had made him feel. He could feel his mania returning once more after several weeks, and it was like going home. It was familiar and comforting, and Alvie didn’t even mind the sleepless nights.

But it never, never lasts.

It was a Friday evening, all the patients had just been finishing up preparations and group crafting of paper snowflakes and decorations for the next day’s winter party, and like a large stone being dropped from a high point, Alvie felt all his energy and happiness fall down and down, harden into ice, and then melt into a mire of depression that was surely going to pull him down and drown him from within.

He couldn’t think, and he was only aware of _nothing_ , and the cold feeling hit him over and over again, that awareness, and he had to stop the tidal wave from happening somehow.

The pills. All the ones he had stashed away in his drawer, they could make this stop.

He rushed back to his room. Doors couldn’t be closed before lights out, but everyone was busy cleaning up anyway.

Scooping as many pills as he could into his hand, shoving the drawer closed, getting water from the tap. They went down, and down, and down.

The pills hadn’t even settled before terror ripped through Alvie.

And so he was kneeling over the toilet, forcibly gagging past his protesting throat, desperately trying to get them out. _What did you do? What did you do?_

 _Juan, mijo,_ _¿_ _qué hiciste?_

Did death feel this way for his mother, as her lungs filled and her heart failed and she couldn’t breathe anymore? What pitiful comparison was this, the son that had outlived her in years and age?

How was this respecting her memory?

_Perdóname, mamí, I’m sorry._

His throat burned, and he couldn’t see, and he could taste the salt from his tears. _No quiero morir._

_Y la voz de mi madre: “Quiera Dios mis pecados perdonar…”_

 

* * *

 

Dr. Beasley was helping pack up the crafting supplies, and the others had just finished folding the tablecloths.

“Where did Alvie go?” someone asked.

Beasley quickly glanced around. There was no real cause for concern – the activity was over, so Alvie probably felt free to go. This wouldn’t be the first time he had skipped out of recreation hours to go back to his room and sleep. Still, it was close to dinner and lights out anyway, so Alvie choosing this time to retreat was more unusual.

Walking out of the room with the controlled expression of a professional that didn’t want to alert others of any cause for concern, Beasley walked down the hall to where Alvie and House used to share a room. Alvie had been alone for a few months now, and if it wasn’t for the gender-segregated rooming policy, she would have put one of the new patients in with him.

As soon as Beasley neared the room, she saw that all the lights were on, even from the bathroom, so he was probably in there.

“Alvie?” Beasley called out. It was important to extend some politeness when the patients weren’t allowed to close their doors all day.

A quiet sob came from the bathroom, unmistakably from Alvie.

Beasley rushed in. There was Alvie, sitting on the floor and hunched over the toilet with his fingers wet from being stuck down his throat. He seemed to be getting a moment’s breath, but that didn’t mean he was calm. Quick breaths were nearly to the point of hyperventilating, and Alvie’s whole body shuddered with sobs as his eyes squeezed shut against the flow of tears.

“What happened?” Beasley cried out. She knelt beside him, her white lab coat brushing the floor. She saw a few pills littered here and there, the drugs Alvie should have been taking for the last several weeks. “Alvie, what did you do?”

His expression was so miserable, and his eyes so red. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t want to die.”

“Alvie -” Beasley started, and then called in the emergency. Patient number, room, and what it looks like he had taken - possibly several days’ worth of pills.

He pulled his knees up, burying his face in his arms and shaking.

“It’s going to be okay,” Beasley said automatically, but she didn’t feel it. She was too afraid to reach out and touch him with a reassuring hand, so she sat in silence as they waited for help, a foot away from Alvie as he cried.


	4. Chapter 4

After what was officially regarded as a suicide attempt - no matter how much Alvie insisted that “it wasn’t like that” – he had to be kept in 24-hour surveillance. Luckily, Alvie had gotten most of the drugs out himself, but it was still important for him to be monitored, even after his physical condition was assessed to be stable.

Dr. Beasley went to visit Alvie mid-day after a rough night’s sleep. Nora was gone for her third shift, and the bed was cold, lonely, and unforgiving as Beasley’s mind went back to Mayfield. She had met with many suicidal patients over the years, but never had she been so close to an actual attempt. It had been happening just down the hall. In that bathroom, Alvie had looked so small and vulnerable, so terrified that his fingers were the last, the only, defense keeping him from death. The sound of his choking sobs had haunted Beasley since then.

In the lower ward for emergency cases and observation, Beasley was led to Alvie’s room. The lighting was not too harsh, a calm enough balance for either sleep or activity, but well-lit enough for the camera’s sake. Alive was covered up in the bed, possibly asleep. The aide departed, and Beasley picked up Alvie’s chart and walked near him.

Alvie opened his eyes and looked up toward Dr. Beasley, his gaze a bit lost and unfocused.

“How are you doing?” she asked gently. She couldn’t help reaching down and running a hand through his black hair, trailing down to caress his cheek. Alvie leaned into her touch slightly, but otherwise his body was completely relaxed. He blinked slowly, and his eyes were definitely glazed over with some kind of drug. Beasley was reminded of a tranquilized animal in a zoo, deemed as a danger and drugged; being prepared for treatment, relocation, or removal.

Beasley looked at the chart. Not only had they given him his antipsychotic and antidepressant, but also a heavy dosage of a benzodiazepine. Poor guy was getting flooded with meds for all his trouble.

“M’sorry,” Alvie mumbled, the words slurring through his lips.

Beasley looked into his big dark eyes, made blacker from his drug-blown pupils.

“You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t your fault,” Beasley said. In response, Alvie sluggishly untucked his arm to reach out for Beasley. Surprised, she grasped his hand in hers.

“We all just want to see you get better,” she added, squeezing his hand. A shadow of a smile passed over his face before he closed his eyes and fell back asleep.

 

* * *

 

Alvie stayed on his medication schedule after that, especially since the staff would check each time to make sure he swallowed the drugs immediately, which should have been a rule in the first place. If he wanted to leave a group activity, he needed to have an orderly or nurse escort him. He was given “How are you feeling Today?” charts to fill out, modified for multiple check-ins a day, that he had to hand in at the end of each day.

Working together in biweekly meetings, Dr. Beasley and Alvie would discuss how he was feeling from his medication combination. He had to tell her any time he was feeling off, even if it only lasted for a few hours. They began making frequent changes to his meds. When he started getting insomnia from his anxiety again, they tried a sedative. That worked too well and made Alvie sluggish during the day, so they lowered the dosage and then switched to a new drug entirely. If he was consistently too fatigued one week, Beasley tried to lower the dosage of the benzodiazepine. When he started to get too anxious and sad, she would scale back and try an anti-depressant that might be more effective.

“It’s a tough balancing act, but once you figure it out, you’ll be praising modern medicine,” an older, consulting physician told Beasley. Beasley’s med school dissertation had focused on the psychological disorders present in families with multi-generation alcoholism, so addiction and trauma were more her forte than depression and mood disorders. At her older colleague’s advice and encouragement, she read up on bipolar disorder and different treatments through time. There was no getting around the timely process with Alvie, she learned – this painstaking trial-and-error was necessary and the only way to get him properly adjusted.

Beasley wondered if anyone had ever had enough patience to give Alvie the full care he needed before. People wanted the most expedient, effective solutions to things, and drugs were a quick and straightforward way to fix anyone that so much as strayed from the norm in society.

In their biweekly catch-up sessions, Alvie seemed to hint at just as much. Several weeks after the overdose incident, he came into a meeting with all the energy of a manic episode, except his expression was absolutely dreadful.

“How are you feeling today, Alvie?” Beasley asked, noting the way he picked at his nails and looked around restlessly.

He bit his lip and bounced one leg, peering outside the narrow window. “Alvie?”

His eyes snapped back to her. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, as if answering a question.

“I’m not sad or anything, just – uh, wired,” he launched into. “It’s energy, but not the good kind, just the bad parts. All the anxiety,” he explained, putting his hand to his chest and rubbing, as if the pain was particularly focused there.

Beasley frowned. “What about the depression? You’re not getting that ‘empty’ feeling or anything, are you?”

“No, no no no,” Alvie said, shaking his head vigorously. “It is a bit like before, but not the really bad part of that. Just the anxiety this time, though – like I’m edgy but not – “

He gestured, and Beasley filled in the blank from the last time he was overwhelmed by his anxiety and depression at once.

“Okay, well at least the antidepressants have seemed to help with the worst of it,” Beasley said brightly. “You just might need something more for the anxiety then…”

She thought a bit as Alvie looked on anxiously.

Xanax could be very addictive as a long-term drug, so it was good to try other options. Maybe Klonopin would be a fit, but then again, didn’t that one come with the possibility of increasing paranoia and suicidal ideation? Well, Beasley thought, trial and error. And they’re keeping a close eye on Alvie now.

“The Xanax seems to be helping at the moment, but I’ll have you try Klonopin and see if its changes are more effective. The two are similar, but Klonopin might further improve your anxiety. For now, you’ll get a higher dose of Xanax until we switch to Klonopin.”

“Even though it will make me tired?” Alvie asked.

“Being tired will be better than the anxiety,” Beasley reassured him. He gave a tight smile that was more of a grimace, and he let out a narrow, quick sigh. He was still noticeably high-strung.

“What is it?” Beasley prompted.

Alvie leaned forward and curved his shoulders inward, aiming his words at his trembling hands. “What if this never works?” He looked up at Beasley. “Whatever I’m feeling, I always make things worse, I – “

His mouth worked a bit to try and find the words. “I’m too much for people when I’m not on drugs, and then when I’m on them, I’m not enough.” Alvie’s expression was open and fearful. “What if that never changes?”

“Well I don’t know about that, Alvie,” Beasley said gently, purposely striking a balance between weight and precision in her tone to convey the gravitas of her words. “But this isn’t about other people. What you’re doing here is for you, and no one else.”

Beasley stood up from her desk and walked over to Alvie, sitting down beside him. She took his hand.

“It’s not your fault that the rest of the world can’t feel things as intensely as you do. Maybe if it did, things would be easier, but that doesn’t change the fact that you can’t control when the mania wears off. What we’re doing here will help you control your emotions, and you’ll have more choice because of it. The drugs won’t take your feelings away, with the right balance,” Beasley added. “I know that you’ve had problems with this in the past, but that wasn’t your fault. You just didn’t have the right dosage. If we get it right this time, hopefully you’ll never have to choose between drugs or no drugs ever again.”

Alvie ducked his head down and nodded, thanking her as he left soon after.

The adjustments in Alvie’s medication began to work on his anxiety, and his average range of moods became more positive.

“I don’t know what it is, Dr. Bees, but I think it’s working,” he exclaimed to her as he walked in one day. Spring was finally emerging out of the washed-away winter, and Alvie reflected the liveliness of the world around him.

“I never thought I’d say that,” Alvie admitted, cracking a bright smile. “My tía had me get a few shock treatments in my teens, y’know, for the depression, but it only worked for a while and I think it messed with my memory, and when I got older I was just like ‘I’m out.’ Tried to find my own place in the world, and I would get jobs and make friends, but things didn’t last if my depression went on too long. Like, I would drop off the face of the earth. The mania usually balanced things out and made things great again, but that came with its own problems. Several times I would try to get on meds to make people happy,” Alvie rambled, gesturing animatedly with his hands. “But, you know, I never had the patience for the side effects, how my other emotions would amplify or disappear…But that won’t happen this time,” he added.

“I mean, in general, it’s easy to get carried away when I feel too high or too flat or whatever, and that’s given me some trouble, but I appreciate the time you’ve been willing to help me get the patience to figure this stuff out.”

“Of course,” Beasley said. “Everyone deserves a fair shot at pursuing happiness in life, and we’ve talked about how it’s not about suppressing your identity or emotions, but gaining more control of your life. And your happiness comes first, before your art.”

Alvie nodded a bit sheepishly at that. Part of the reason why he had ended up at Mayfield this time was so that he could safely go off his drugs for artistic inspiration.

In one of their last sessions, Alvie’s sat on the couch and looked over at Beasley with bright eyes. His hands sat in his lap without a tremor.

“So, Alvie, what are your plans for after you’re released?” Beasley asked.

“I’ll find a place to live, until I get a job,” Alvie said.

“You got some friends or connections you could reach out to?”

Alvie smiled, a grin that brightened his whole aspect. “Definitely.”

“There are always family members you could count on, too,” Beasley added, since realistically some of his friends may have drifted away by now. “You mentioned some cousins –”

“Yeah, no problem, Dr. Bees.”

“And just remember, check-ins are a required part of the insurance. So make sure you make all of your counselling sessions, or call to reschedule when you need to.”

“No problem,” he said, and she knew by the way his smile reached his eyes that he meant it.


	5. Chapter 5

Alvie was released from Mayfield at the end of April. His send-off party was awesome: chocolate cake, decorations his fellow patients had helped put up, and more hugs than he could count. Cards full of well-wishes and “We’ll MISS YOU!!”s were stuffed in his duffel bag, alongside his Puerto Rican flag. He wore his blue jacket over a T-shirt and button-down shirt, which he had considered wearing with a tie for the occasion of his release, but with the nice spring weather he would have taken it off anyway.

Bus ticket to anywhere. Back home to the neighborhood? Alvie mildly wondered how much had changed. The last few years he had hardly visited, but since his uncle died, he and his aunt had been getting in touch more often.  Not like that was very much. A phone call here and there. The last year he had only called Aunt Lenore once, and it was between his Mayfield visits on a rare day when he didn’t feel blank from medication. 

The warm spring breeze ruffled Alvie’s hair as he sat on a metal bench and watched for the bus.

There was no pressing reason to go back home. Only half of his childhood friends had probably moved on, and not seeing extended family for a full year wouldn’t make a difference. One thing about his family was, better or worse, family was still family no matter the time or distance. Alvie still went to holidays and events occasionally, if he had the energy for it. Almost two years ago he went to a niece’s quinceañera. Being a part of her joyful celebration was great, but the odd looks and gossiping had made Alvie too uncomfortable. _You know crazy cousin Juan? He showed up!_ People were happy to talk about him, but not to him.

No, Alvie felt no rush to go home. The last home he had was gone, too. Any of his belongings not in his duffel were probably with his ex-girlfriend. They had broken up long before his third stay at Mayfield. One time when he went off his meds and had a manic episode, his sympathetic girlfriend sent him to Mayfield for help (unknowing that he had been there before, since he had made sure to always be evasive on the subject). After his return, their relationship only lasted a few more weeks, but they were still close and lived together after the break up.

Months into Alvie’s emotionless drug treatment, however, Mina moved out – she said he was “too dependent” on her, even after the break up. Soon enough, Alvie was once more going off his medication and putting himself into the world again. There were some good couple weeks flying high - until Mina visited, caught him in a panic attack, and had him packing back to Mayfield. The apartment was leased out by now, and Mina probably took whatever was left to her place. Did she share that place with someone new? Alvie hoped so. He didn’t want to complicate things. Better to start fresh.

Honestly, Mina had been his first serious relationship in years. Alvie had spent his early twenties in a state of sometimes exhilarating, sometimes terrifying desperation. His life was a whirlwind of different jobs, places to stay, and lovers. He had gone off and on anti-depressants for years, but the prescription for lithium is what really drove him into a pit. It was when he climbed out of it and met Mina that things seemed to be getting better.

It didn’t matter that he didn’t have a Mina now. Walking out of Mayfield, into the spring sunshine, he felt better than he had in years. The bonds of his manic-depressive cycle were broken, and the wind and sun felt like baptism.

He could tie up loose ends and catch up with Mina later. At the moment, Alvie had a number in his pocket and a destination in mind.

 

* * *

 

Okay, so maybe the paint wasn’t a great idea, but what else could Alvie have done? Alvie never got an answer out of the phone number he used, and when he tracked down the apartment address, the place was abandoned. Like, an inch of dust covering everything abandoned. The most likely scenario was that House had given the place up. So, Alvie got to work. Whether the doctor ever returned or not, Alvie needed somewhere to stay – but the last thing he wanted was a place with more gray walls.

The last few weeks weren’t perfect, but Alvie didn’t need much to get by. He had some music and cash, his meds, and his goals. Life was his, and he could take things slow and do them right. One of those things was getting his own place.

Maybe House secretly liked the paint, because he let Alvie come along to help with a case. During their outing with Ms. X, aka Sidney the jogging lawyer, Alvie mentioned to House in passing that getting a place in his own name might be difficult, since technically immigration was looking for him. They didn’t believe he was Puerto Rican, it’s not like anybody kept track of his and his mom’s birth records, and damn if Alvie was going to get his aunt involved…

“Hence squatting in my apartment and selling my stuff,” House interrupted sourly.

“Yes, but it’s not even my fault because I tried to apply normally and bureaucracy’s a bitch…”

All the paperwork they had given him stressed him out, but during one manic high, he got the idea to forge his own birth certificate. It had seemed like the perfect solution. And well, now Alvie still had a bit of that baggage with him.

He was willing to confront the problem eventually, but he knew that he needed a certain emotional stability to do it. Now that he was on some balanced meds, perhaps he could think about the issue without dissolving into an anxiety attack. Alvie filed this under his “Think About Later” mental space, which was quite full, and _that_ fact was also filed away to think about at a more convenient time.

After they got House’s stuff back (who knew somebody could be so attached to some books and a coffee table?) and had returned Sidney to the hospital, Alvie hoped House wasn’t too pissed at him. They entered the apartment and Alvie broached the subject to House on whether he would be willing to let him stay for a while. Once he got a job and could handle the immigration issues, he would be out of House’s hair in no time.

House only grunted in reply to Alvie’s rambling proposition. “Yeah, fine,” he said dismissively as he limped into the living room. “And you can finish the ceiling, but everything else has to go back to what it was. _And_ the yellow has to go.”

Alvie’s tense stance by the door relaxed. “Yeah, no problem boss. Easy as anything. I mostly moved stuff out of the main room; everything else should be as is in the bedroom.”

House sighed wearily, and without another word he went to his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

It was close, but it looked like Alvie wasn’t getting the boot tonight. Alvie took his nightly meds and settled on the corner sofa where he had been sleeping the last few weeks. Headphones, iPod – he got them both back with his phone when discharged from Mayfield. Soon enough, he was nodding off to the familiar beats and sinking soundly under.

 

* * *

 

House left for work the next day with Alvie already gone from the apartment. The patient’s condition worsened throughout the day, but more in a two-steps-forward, one-step-back kind of way, so House let the team handle the situation for the most part. He took a long lunch, partly curious to ask Alvie to join him, but partly to check in on his new houseguest.

House walked in to see Alvie perched on a tall ladder, stretching ridiculously to reach a new area of the ceiling to paint magenta. The colors were as bright as Alvie’s personality, but it didn’t mean they were suitable for House’s walls, which were perfectly fine as a calming, neutral gray, thank you very much. At least the yellow was covered again.

“Hey House! Didn’t know when you’d be back, but I got pizza, and you can have some if you want!” Alvie called out.

“Thanks,” House replied dryly. “Now what other possessions do I need to go back to the pawn shop for?”

“I told you, I earn my keep! Also, I have some money – the living situation problem is just complicated by immigration, like I said.”

“About that,” House said, biting off a piece of the mixed pizza from some Italian place - by the looks of it, one he had never tried before. Not bad. “How long are you planning on staying?”

Alvie stepped down from the ladder a bit, magenta roller in hand. “As soon as I get my situation set, I’ll be gone - puede contar en eso. Work shouldn’t be a problem. In the meantime, I can help you out with whatever you need.”

“Right. Well getting my apartment back to where it was would be great,” House said, already opening a box of odd bits and ends.

Alvie nodded vigorously, and as soon as he finished painting, he helped House haul in his belongings from the other room. Most of the furniture had been kept near their original spots and just covered with plastic.

The only person in the apartment with two fully functioning legs, Alvie did most of the hauling as House directed him on what went where. He would smile brightly at House and easily bring in the next thing. 

Although Alvie was as lively as ever, House had immediately noticed some changes since the several months they had last seen each other. The shorter man had gained a healthy bit of weight, his dark hair had grown out a bit, and he generally seemed more put-together. In comparison, how had House done for himself? Just older and living the low-medicated life. Still going to therapy, which was getting increasingly pointless.

Alvie brushed past House with a box, sweating slightly at his temple before brushing it away. When House had invited him along the previous day to help with the patient, Alvie had ran to change into a button-down and tie. Today he was once more in his faded jeans and gray, paint-spattered shirt. House briefly mused on how much more form-fitting the shirt was on Alvie’s stocky physique than the white button-down. Then he stopped, rolled his eyes at himself, and dismissed the thought for his mental “burn later” pile. The habit was so old that House didn’t even think about it. Neither did he think about how frequently the last year he had needed to ignore certain straying thoughts.

Briefly wondering how your old roommate at the nuthouse is doing? Fine. Thinking about his goofy smile and how nicely he fit in your arms? Double X, shove in a box, douse in gasoline, and throw a match.

Once they had gotten most of the apartment in order, House cracked open a beer and offered one to Alvie. The man accepted it graciously but would only take a few sips. For something to do, Alvie found a Nerf football and suggested tossing it around. They were having a fine time until Wilson showed up to lecture House to death. Nope. He closed the door on Wilson’s face, mid-sentence.

Not enough beer. Time to get out the stronger stuff.

He wore out even Alvie eventually, who threw himself onto the couch with one last catch and refused to get back up. House paced with bourbon in hand as Alvie checked to make sure his mother’s necklace was secure. Alvie sighed and laid back, closing his eyes. His head reclined, exposing his neck. His chest moved up and down in a warm rhythm.

House kept on his pacing and drinking. His leg had stopped bothering him by now – Wilson’s annoying, condescending face had made it flair up again, and the bourbon helped to numb it. The need for something more dug into House’s core, though. He wished he was at a bar. Start a fight, get someone pissed at him.

Or something…else. Damn if he remembered the last time he got laid, because it never mattered anyway – certainly the last meaningful connection he had made with a woman was nearly a year ago.

House’s gaze was irresistibly pulled to where Alvie was reclined on the couch. He let his eyes follow the flow of the man’s body and linger at the tender lips and vulnerable neck. What would it be like to give in to that age-old impulse and see where it went?

His phone rang.

“Long lunch break?” came Taub’s cool voice.

“What is it?” House said, taking a much larger swallow of bourbon that almost made him choke, and honestly, he should just let it.

“We've kept the patient up for twelve hours now. No hint of seizure-like activity,” Taub sighed. “We should shut this down.”

“Try a strobe light. Add more stress.” House said. Taub filled him in on Sidney and Jay’s love spat. Great.

“I’ll come in,” House said nonchalantly, fixing an annoyed tone, even though he had already snapped up his cane, his hands eager for a distraction. He added a few more terse words before hanging up.

Alvie raised his arm from over his eyes. “What? House, where you going?”

“Back to the hospital,” House answered shortly, reaching for his jacket.

“Oh,” he replied, still looking sleepy. He had actually been falling asleep. House told himself that that was _not_ adorable. “Plans for dinner?”

Why did he have to flutter his damn eyelashes like that? “No, go ahead. I’ll be late,” House grunted. “Don’t destroy anything while I’m gone.”

Then House was out, and the MRI and team diagnosing were an efficient distraction. Spongiform encephalitis. Easy: cut out part of the woman's brain, if the boring husband lets her. She should really file for a divorce on the basis that she isn’t the same person that chose to marry that overbearing piece of drywall. House would gladly help sign those papers.

House lingered at the hospital, grabbing dinner to eat before it would be late enough for him to return to the apartment. _“Late enough” for what?_ House avoided dwelling on it. It’s not like he was avoiding Alvie. The apartment was the same old place, with the same old stuff – he didn’t need to spend much time there. Alvie would just need to get into the habit of not expecting House to always be there. If House was never there, the man wouldn’t get too attached, and Alvie would feel more inclined to leave sooner.

As he ate alone in his office, House had some breathing room to think things over. He had to get rid of Alvie. Not out of spite, but for his own good. House was painfully aware that people always ended up worse off for having known him, at least as far as personal relationships went. Alvie might trust House, even regard him as a friend, but the man had enough to worry about without House screwing him up. Just look at Mr. Saintly Nice Guy Wilson: the hollowed-out loveless man thinks jump-starting the corpse of his first failed marriage is his only remaining relationship option. No, House didn’t want to witness himself crush the light out of another pair of hopeful brown eyes. Before House could wield has mighty force of negative influence, he would send Alvie out. 

When House stepped into the apartment, Alvie was already asleep. He was on the smaller living room couch, a pair of white headphones in place, arms loosely folded over his chest.

House pushed down any emerging pity. He was already set in his decision and had some ideas for putting Alvie on a different path, away from him. It would all resolve itself in time anyway, reasoned House. A good lawyer would eventually find the records of mother Alvarez that proved that Alvie was really a U.S. citizen. In the meantime, he had the first step in the plan: it would be best to get Alvie out of the house so immigration agents wouldn’t try to arrest House for harboring a fugitive.

 

* * *

 

Alvie thought he could handle betrayal. But utter betrayal like this, so total and humiliating as House stood by and watched the immigration agents walk him away like a criminal, stung Alvie deep. The looks of doctors rushing by, the cool handcuffs and rough grip of the agents. The weight of it all pulled painfully on his heart.

Only minutes ago, he had been delighted to finally be in House’s official diagnosing medicine office, fooling himself for a few seconds that he truly belonged there. Helping House with his case, even stealing back that dusty medical book from that rich douchebag – had he not earned House’s trust and respect? Sure, no big deal, get everyone to stab Caesar in a public place. If House had really hated Alvie’s company, why hadn’t he told him to get lost? Well, he did once or twice, but then he agreed to let Alvie stay after that, which was what mattered.

It didn’t seem like House was acting out of spite, though. Alvie had clearly seen behind the feigned nonchalance on House’s face a mix of emotions that created more of a “I’m sorry this is for your own good” message than a “good riddance, asshole” dig. That may have even been guilt tugging House’s mouth into a grimace.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t very well matter, because House had still broken Alvie’s trust and called the authorities. Dick. All the way out of the building and driving to the jail, Alvie fumed. His adrenaline was screaming for a release, some kind of target, but he had to reign it in. Belligerence with the authorities always caused trouble. Alvie had been through it before: if a person was any shade darker than lily-white, cops inflated any sign of anger or protest as a violent outburst. Nobody would bat an eye at the need to beat up and drug a dangerous Hispanic delinquent. So, Alvie grit his teeth and sat deathly silent in the back of the cop car.

In his jail cell, Alvie paced and stamped his anger into the concrete floor until he grew tired of that. He laid on the bare cot and tried to calm down. He had always meant to give breathing exercises a shot. Maybe he could try those before the hours died away and he could get some sleep.

Alvie jolted. His nightly meds – holy shit.

This morning he had only taken his Provigil, which kept him awake to counteract the other stuff. A small dose of the antipsychotic specifically for his mania, Geodon, usually went with lunch. But he had skipped the dose in favor of going out with House, thinking they would be back in time for Alvie to take his other meds.

Like Prozac. And later, the Trazodone that helps Alvie sleep. 

How could he have been so stupid? Granted, he didn’t know that he’d be arrested today, by why didn’t he carry some spare pills on him just in case? He was screwed.

Alvie’s lungs constricted and he had to sit up to gasp air. He couldn’t just _skip_ those doses for the days or weeks he could be locked up for. It was like suddenly depriving his brain of oxygen: he couldn’t survive without what his brain needed, what he needed.

If he called over a guard, begged for a call to his doctor, or pleaded for access for his meds, would it work? Like hell they care if the Hispanic dude missing his immigration hearings gets something as superfluous as healthcare.

 _“Oh, you need special access to fancy medications because of some_ feelings _?”_ he imagined a cop sneering.

 _“Why are we letting this nutjob mooch off our healthcare system?”_ another would say in disgust.

Alvie concluded that life or death, he couldn’t mention his meds. Immigration would care about him infinitely less, and instead of carting him away to some psych ward to drain taxpayer money, they would happily boot him out of the country. The last thing they want are “illegals” that aren’t even useful.

Alvie’s eyes welled with tears, and he swallowed a bitter lump in his throat. He should have filled out those papers properly. What would his mother have thought of all this? She would have known what to do, strong-willed as she was – or at least that was the cloudy impression Alive got from his memories of her. Those images, once prized sparks of love and inspiration, now darkened by the doubt creeping into Alvie’s sense of self and purpose. He was more certain that his mother would be ashamed of him if she had lived. Several years of failures pressed in on him. Always getting into trouble, couldn’t stay in jobs too long without getting fired or bored, being too crazy.

 _You are not crazy. Never use that word,_ Dr. Beasley had firmly told him once. _“Crazy” just adds stigma - the words we use matter._ Well, tough. Alvie had a million more important things to worry about than words, words that weren’t that different anyway. Crazy, mentally ill, sick, burden, useless. They all applied to him, and despite varying connotations, they all meant the same thing at base.

Every trace of sunlight was now vanished outside, the small window above emitting nothing but the black screen of night. Fluorescent bulbs lined the jail hallway here and there. Alvie apathetically stared directly at one and wondered if they ever get shut off.

Concrete floors, hard cot with no sheet, toilet and sink, walls also made of some kind of cinder-block type stones. Alvie dully observed these surroundings, though there wasn’t much to look at.

 _How did I get here?_ Alvie despaired. One part of him started to suffocate, another felt like kicking or shaking the jail bars to hell, but mostly there existed the old feeling of empty detachment.

 

* * *

 

Bright and sunny in the parking lot where his motorcycle was parked, House was leaving work for the day when his cell phone rang.

In only a few days, he and the team had discovered the real problem with the amnesia case: an ultraviolet tattoo. Add that one to the list. The woman would be just fine, even if her memory was still an issue. She even seemed to be warming up to her husband.

As per usual, seeing a happy couple made House want to throw up, so he got out of there as soon as he could. Usually solving a case gave House an increased sense of accomplishment, but his feeling of a case well solved was short lived after the discovery. And the looks of the reconciled couple were unbearable to witness. Here Sidney had been given a new chance at life without guilt, and she was going back on the same path anyway. What a waste. Feeling the rising ire and gloom within him, House glared through the sunlight and pushed down whatever was threatening to rise up like bile.

His cell rang as he was digging for his keys and sunglasses.

“Off duty, call tomorrow,” House ground out, raising his other hand to block the damn sun.

“I’m sorry, but is this Dr. House?”

House sighed. “Who’s asking?”

House lifted his bad leg over his seat and got onto his motorcycle as the man explained that he was officer so-and-so calling about his patient being detained at the jail.

It was more in confusion than surprise that House squinted in response. Was this about Alvie? House hadn’t said he was Alvie’s doctor when he called him in, but that could be something Alvie told them.

“Are you referring to Juan Alvarez?” House led.

“Yes, we have you as the contact who reported him, and we assume that you’re his medical provider.”

“Right. Is he requesting my presence?” House could imagine all sorts of stories and schemes Alvie could be spinning to get out of his hearing.

“Actually sir, we are calling of our own accord to get insight into Mr. Alvarez’s medical situation. If you could please come down to the station so we can discuss this further…”

The call continued for a few more minutes so House could agree for a visit, and then he hung up with a cuss. It wasn’t until he had gotten back to his apartment, stepped through the door, and saw Alvie’s duffel bag shoved in the corner that he made the connection. A quick search through the bag confirmed part of his hypothesis: here was an assortment of bottles and pills that had been regularly opened, meds that had been surreptitiously but faithfully taken every day.

House hadn’t cared to notice. Why would he reasonably assume that a regular on-and-off again patient of Mayfield would be taking his meds? He and Alvie hadn’t talked too extensively on the subject, of course, since House didn’t have much to show but months’ worth of unproductive therapy. Alvie had said that he had only showed up at House’s apartment a few weeks prior, having nowhere else to go after leaving Mayfield. In the last year, had Alvie been putting time into real recovery, only for it to be thrown away by House?

House put away the bottles and gripped the coffee table instead, using it to steady himself. It wasn’t only his own progress House had to ruin, but his friend’s. He just couldn’t avoid fucking things up.

House pinched the bridge of his nose and braced himself before getting off the floor. He grabbed Alvie’s bag and walked out to his car.


	6. Chapter 6

“We’re glad you’re here,” Officer Bauer said after House had arrived. As House filled out some visitor’s paperwork, Bauer explained the situation to him.

“We try to speak to him, but he doesn’t respond. His lawyer won’t meet with him until the day of his hearing, so we thought that was why he wouldn’t speak to anyone – no requests for phone calls or anything. But that’s not the problem,” Bauer said, in response to House’s look of scrutiny. “The problem is that he won’t eat anything, and he has outbursts that stop as suddenly as they start. It’s unsettling and concerning as hell.”

“Yeah,” House grit out, disgusted at himself that he put Alvie in this situation. Alvie’s moods were on full display, the lack of privacy making it as if he were a zoo animal to gawk at and study. Handing over the meds for the police to give to him would hardly help Alvie’s dignity.

“I want to see him now. When is his hearing?”

“Tomorrow,” Bauer answered, and a female officer came around to guide House.

They walked down a warmly lit but relatively dim hallway, and the officer walked some distance away after she showed House Alvie’s cell. The man laid on his cot, eyes closed.

House tapped on the bars. “Hey.”

Alvie’s eyes opened to glance at House, but he folded his arms and didn’t say anything. House was close enough to see that he looked awful: his skin was pale, his forehead had an unhealthy sheen of sweat, and dark circles were under his eyes. They didn’t make him wear a jumpsuit, but he was still in his clothes they brought him in with two days ago. The thin, short-sleeved, cream-colored shirt was pulled tightly around him, as were his crossed arms. House’s jacket was hardly good cover in the cool air of the jail, so Alvie could hardly be faring better. 

The situation pissed him off. “You idiot,” House said. “Why didn’t you call Mayfield or someone about your meds?”

It took several moments before Alvie responded, his voice flat excepting an echo of bemusement. “It’s over. Best I can hope for is a lawyer that doesn’t know I’m crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, Alvie,” House said.

“This place doesn’t help. It’s worse than Mayfield.”

“Well, I brought your meds. You can take what you need.”

Alvie only looked over at House, his dark eyes losing some of their distance to show some of the despair and anxiety inside.

“What’s the point? It’s not like they would’ve helped for long anyway. I always find a way to screw things up for myself.”

“Hey, this isn’t on you, Alvie,” House said forcefully. “This is my fault. And I’ll get you out of this. But in order to do that, you need to take your meds.”

Tears started to prick at the corners of Alvie’s eyes, but he ignored them. “Why does it even matter to you?”

“Like I said: I got you into this. Your hearing is tomorrow. Promise me you can pull yourself together?”

Alvie only looked at him over the distance of broken trust between them.

“You don’t have to believe in anything I say right now. Just trust me and do it, and I’ll take care of the rest,” House insisted.

“Okay,” Alvie finally agreed, his voice reluctant and small. He looked away, and House pulled out the bottles of medication.

Alvie sat up as House poured one of each pill into his hand. “Here,” he said, proffering them between the bars, checking to make sure the officer wasn’t around to see. “Take the Prozac right now, and the others when you need them.”

Alvie sighed and grabbed them, fingertips cold brushing House’s palm. With water from the tap, he took the antidepressant, halfheartedly waved his hands out as if he had performed a trick and gave House a pointed look. He trudged back over to his cot.

House wanted to check that Alvie had actually swallowed the pill, but it didn’t seem faked, and he didn’t want to add insult to injury. The officer was now starting to return, edging her way closer to them. House didn’t want to leave yet. He didn’t want to leave Alvie here, even if it was for just another day. How he suddenly yearned for them to be roommates at Mayfield again, where life was so much easier to handle. The outside world, not so much.

“Hey,” House said, trying to get Alvie’s attention once more. “I’ll be back tomorrow to get you a change of clothes. In the meantime, take this,” he said, shuffling it off. “You’re making me cold just looking at you.”

Alive took the jacket, but only held it. He continued to look at House until the female officer was by them, and House gave a brief nod to Alvie before being led away.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, sitting on the benches waiting for the hearing to start, Alvie felt supremely nervous, even though he had improved tremendously since the night before. He was grateful to House for bringing him different clothes, but his tie and jacket were starting to feel constricting in the crowded formal setting.

House eventually sauntered in on his cell phone, probably for his job guessing by the sniping and flippant tone. He sat behind Alvie, and Alvie tried to resist the urge to look back at him before allowing a quick glance. House looked back at Alvie, raising his eyebrows before refocusing on his call. Alvie turned back to the front and felt no more reassured.

The bench felt like a pew in church, and Alvie started to sweat as he imagined that a pastor would emerge to point his finger and denounce him in front of everyone with rapid-fire Spanish that would damn him to hell. Alvie had stopped going to church late in his teens, but the image of the consistently red-faced and rumble-voiced Padre Cabrera stuck with him. Thank God his immediate relatives stopped caring if he went to service. Even with the absence of crosses and stained-glass windows, the majesty of the court room added to the effect that the air was thinning, and any second Alvie could pass out from asphyxiation.

Alvie touched his mother’s cross, trying to ground himself. How long was this going to be? Could the person next to him hear his anxious breathing? In, out, in, out – damn those breathing exercises. Was it ten seconds or five seconds?

“¿Señor? Perdóname, pero me encanta a su cruz,” came a voice directed at Alvie, and a hand reached around to touch him. He started at first. A middle-aged woman had reached around the person between them to address Alvie. A smile broke across his face. The woman could have been the ugliest in the world, and she still would have been the most welcome person to see at this moment.

“Ah, ¡muchas gracias señora! Es la cruz de mi madre. Ella me la dio antes de murió.”

“Oh, lo siento,” she said, leaning in to get a better glimpse of the cross. “¿Su madre era católica?”

“Sí, también ella era puertorriqueña, y ahora hoy estoy aquí porque a nadie lo cree,” Alvie explained.

“¡Que lástima! Son cosas que pasan; no se preocupen,” the woman assured him, and patted his shoulder.

“Gracias, ¿Señora -?” Alvie said.

“García,” she said. “Juliana.”

“Me llamo Juan,” Alvie said, shaking her hand a little. “Mucho gusto.”

Juliana started to explain how she was there to sort out some papers for her husband, but the court was called to order, and Alvie’s case was first. His fears, in retreat during the friendly conversation, jumped back into him.

And then House popped up before his lawyer could hardly get a word in, flourishing a paper seemingly pulled out of thin air.

“DNA test for Juan Alvarez,” House said, his face a mask of seriousness.

Before Alvie knew it, the next case was already being addressed. House retreated, and Alvie followed, too stunned to move at first.

Juliana was smiling at him, a kind of “What did I tell you?” look, and Alvie mouthed back to her a thank you and good luck “con su esposo.”

“My mother’s DNA was on the cross?” Alvie asked skeptically. Was that possible after over 20 years?

“Maybe,” House said nonchalantly.

“You _faked_ it?” Alvie burst out when they got into the hallway. House gave him a “shhh” and continued limping along.

“If anyone asks, you only started wearing the cross recently,” House murmured.

Alvie stood, floored, and then sprang on House with joy. House didn’t necessarily reciprocate, but Alvie was off him before the taller man could push him away, too excited.

“I’m going to paint your whole apartment now,” he declared. “Make the drapes match the carpet now!”

House kept walking, though there might have been a shadow of a smile there. Alvie beamed and bounded after him.

 

* * *

 

They went to get some lunch, and as they dug into their food Alvie prattled about interior design and the home improvement shows his family used to watch. House noticed that he picked at his food lightly, even with his hands moving so quickly in his expressive gesticulating.

“You seem cheery,” House commented.

“Of course - thanks to you I don’t have to feel like I’m being chased in my own country. Excepting my island, of course, esa bonita isla,” Alvie said, gesturing his hands in prayer upwards.

“And how are you _feeling_?” House said with meaning.

Alvie caught the doctor tone. He paused in dipping his fry, and his fingers trembling a bit before continuing their movement. He shrugged. “Not bad. A bit jittery from the excitement.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you must feel great after three days cold turkey on your meds,” House said dryly.

Alive avoided eye contact. “It’s fine. It could have been worse. And I have been off my meds before,” he added.

“And that’s never gone well.”

Alvie looked up and met House’s level gaze. He may have expected pity or condescension, but House was just stating a plain fact. Alvie didn’t respond.

“Since I got you into this mess,” House started, continuing over Alive saying that they were all good now, “Since I got you into this, I’m going to make sure you stay on track with getting back on your meds.”

Alvie stared at him in disbelief, like a teen just told he had to do homework over spring break.

“And we’ll have to let Dr. Nolan or whoever know about this,” House said. Alvie grimaced further.

“I already have to meet with Dr. Beasley once a month,” Alvie said.

“Then you can meet with her again,” House said, moderately surprised that Alvie had to go three times per month less than him. Then again, House’s addiction issues were steeped in some deep shit. Compared to his problems, Alvie had a clear fix.

“Well, you don’t have to look after me at least. I don’t need a babysitter,” Alvie insisted.

“My house, my rules,” House quipped, before taking a bite of his burger.

Alvie crossed his arms and huffed. “Fine.”

“Besides, I’m between cases now – what is it?” House stopped in response to Alvie suddenly squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temple.

“No sé, ugh,” Alvie mumbled. “I’m just dizzy, some reason.”

“When did you take your meds?” House asked.

“Uh,” Alvie said, visibly struggling to focus. He rubbed his eyes. “The Prozac with you, and then the Provigil before the hearing.”

“Nothing else? You didn’t get any sleep, did you?”

“Not really,” Alvie admitted, squinting over at House. “I didn’t know what would happen if I took so much stuff after nothing. I almost had a panic attack thinking I would overdose or something.”

“I’ve seen overdosing. You would have been fine,” House said. He made a living out of exploring those boundaries of experimental medicine.

Alvie didn’t say anything. Then he did, with a sharp intake of breath - “Yeah, I’m gonna throw up,” and he ran out of the booth.

House sighed, finished his burger. He checked his pager, though the team would probably leave him alone until he went in to work. He glimpsed his watch. Fifteen minutes later, Alvie walked back over, his face wan and a bit unkempt, though he had made an attempt to straighten his collar and wash his face.

“Okay, time to go,” House said, getting up before Alvie could drop his drained body back into the booth.

“You know what this means?” House called over his shoulder. Alvie followed him wearily.

“I don’t have to go into work today,” House said. “Get a head start on the weekend, if I play my cards right with Cuddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I included Spanish because I wanted to practice it, haha. So if it's not fully grammatically correct, that's why.


End file.
